


Heart Is Hard To Translate

by fortythousandth



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/F, or at least Michiru vs. her visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortythousandth/pseuds/fortythousandth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Distant Days of Michiru, or: Michiru chases destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Is Hard To Translate

Michiru is thirteen years old when she has her first kiss, and when she looks back on it years later, she can’t even remember the girl’s name. But it’s okay. Her name, after all, had never been the point.  
  


Still.  
  
She knows, has known for as long as she can remember, that there’s someone out there for her, can feel the stars tugging at her, pulling her closer and closer.  
  
And even though some girl at a holiday party isn’t the one, when Michiru gets home, she presses her fingertips to her lips and stares at her reflection in the mirror, and she can’t wipe the smile off her face.

* * *

  
  
It’s only a few months before her parents start getting worried. For her father’s firm’s Christmas party, they parade a small army of suitable boys in front of her: sons of doctors, politicians, lawyers; boys at the top of their classes; boys who are musicians like her, fanning them out like trading cards, and even amongst her parents it’s a competition: who will be the one to offer the boy that Michiru will pick?  
  
Kaiohs don’t make threats. In their empire of ice, no Kaioh would ever be caught dead being so forthright, so vulgar, so brutal.  
  
What her parents have never understood is that Michiru was born into this game, grew up playing this game.  
  
Michiru hears the unspoken message, loud and clear. She selects, instead of any of her parents’ offerings, the first chair flutist in the youth symphony, a bespectacled boy who nearly chokes as soon as he realizes that Michiru is actually talking to him.  
  
She wears him on her arm—not the other way around—for the first half hour of the gala, before detaching herself, shooting a significant look across the room to the pretty cellist whose dress she’d complimented earlier that evening, and slipping out into the hallway, waiting to see if the cellist will follow.  
  
She does.  
  
They always do.

* * *

  
  
Michiru hasn’t slept through the night in years, going on a decade, and the nightmares are only getting worse. Visions of destruction, despair; tidal waves of blood gush through the streets and the stench of death lingers even after she jolts awake, sobbing and shaking.  
  
She’s tried just staying up but she always falls asleep eventually. Her body always forces her to give in and nothing’s helped, not the myriad of expensive therapists her parents paid for back when the dreams first started and she didn’t know better than to hide them, not the books on psychology and mythology and dreams she secretly slipped into her schoolbag from the library, no sort of meditation or deep breathing—the visions are still there, they’re always there, simmering just below the surface. Michiru used to worry when she was younger that she would be hurt, that the visions would kill her, but now, she knows: she knows, in the grand scheme of things, after watching the world shatter around her thousands of times, that she is expendable, she is nothing.  
  
When Michiru moves, the visions move.  
  


* * *

  
  
At school, she grows used to the stares, the giggles, the whispered words. None of them are willing to say anything to her face, anyway. They’re all cowards. Really, it’s another win for Michiru.  
  
It doesn’t matter at all to her.

* * *

  
  
It hits her in the middle of history class.  
  
Lightning zaps through a crimson sky and everything’s shaking, she can barely keep her feet, and everything’s crumbling, and people are screaming, all of them looking at her, and begging her to help them, oh god, somebody help them—  
  
The worst part is she’s used to it by now, knows how to excuse herself while keeping her face perfectly calm, knows how to disguise her trembling hands. Nobody even looks twice at her.  
  
She collapses in a stall as the tiny box walls of the stall loom over her, press in on her, and she can barely breathe and for a moment, she thinks she’s about to be sick. That hasn’t happened in a long time, not since the visions first started occurring, but it seems like it’s only getting worse every time, and god, the people all want her to help them, but how can she help anyone like this, how can she help anyone when every time she closes her eyes it feels like she loses her grip on reality more and more?  
  
Michiru forces herself up—she doesn’t have time for this. She bangs the stall door behind her, cranks up the hot faucet on the sink, and leaves her hands under the steady rush of water until they’re red. She doesn’t feel a thing.  
  
Eventually she’s interrupted by the door swinging open.     
  
Perhaps she should be nervous about Rin Okada following her into the bathroom, but it’s a private girls’ school populated by a crop of rich, privileged children, so what’s the worst that could happen?  
  
Rin’s excellent at math and hangs around the fringes of the popular crowd but never quite manages to break in, as far as Michiru can tell.  
  
To be fair, Michiru spends almost all of her time at school observing, so she’s probably not wrong.  
  
“Kaioh-san,” Rin says, hovering in the doorway, “are you all right?”  
  
Steam wafts up from the sink and a claw of anxiety grasps at her chest and god, she can’t do this here, she can’t break down in front of everyone. “I’m fine,” she says, and in the mirror, she can almost believe herself.  
  
“Okay,” Rin says, and she’s about to leave, and it’s almost over, when she hesitates. “Kaioh-san?”  
  
Michiru glances up, and Rin’s taken a couple more steps forward, almost cornering her by the sinks. “Is it true what they say about you?” she asks with a slight tremor to her voice, and Michiru almost laughs because this is all she needs, with her heart about to pound out of her chest and blackness flickering around the edge of her vision.  
  
She could press Rin, could force her to actually say it (if she even could say it), but she can’t muster the energy to toy with anyone. Michiru is sure to finish carefully drying her hands, examining her reflection for any cracks in the mirror, before deigning to give her answer. “And what if it is?” she says, meeting Rin’s eyes in the mirror.  
  
Rin flushes, swallows hard. “It is?” Her words are barely audible.  
  
Somewhere overhead, a pipe gurgles.  
  
Michiru locks eyes with Rin, who actually flinches at the eye contact, but doesn’t look away.  
  
Rin also has deep brown eyes and always wears a blue bow in her hair. She has the slightest smattering of freckles across her nose. Michiru’s never been close enough to her to notice that.  
  
Another wave of dizziness washes over Michiru and she moves to brush past her to leave, to get out of here, to go anywhere but here, really, maybe even home, but Rin catches her wrist. “Wait…Kaioh-san, I—“  
  
Her voice breaks halfway through the sentence, and in a second, everything becomes crystal clear.  
  
Rin shoots a panicked glance over her shoulder at the door, but her gasp as Michiru nudges her up against the counter is anything but scared, and with the press of Rin’s warm body against hers, it dulls the panic, takes the edge of the sickness. “Was there something you wanted, Okada-san?” she murmurs, and at that moment, all she wants is to keep it going, to keep up the distraction.  
  
She doesn’t flinch when Rin kisses her, and Rin doesn’t hesitate when Michiru tugs her into a stall, not even when she slides the lock closed behind them.  
  
Rin’s shy, her hand at Michiru’s waist, and Michiru grabs her wrist, moves her hand up. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” she murmurs into Rin’s neck. Rin’s hand drifts across Michiru’s breast, tentative at first. Suddenly she grasps, hard, manages to catch Michiru’s nipple in between her fingers and it hurts, and it feels good, and the thick dread in the pit of Michiru’s stomach is melting away and being replaced with hot, shaky need as she moans, tips her head against the stall, and closes her eyes, allowing herself to be carried away.  
  
Michiru could make this work.

* * *

  
  
Before the year is up, she also makes it work with Hyashi Tomi, Kudo Makiko, and Yoshida Toku.  
  


* * *

  
  
Michiru’s selling another painting, or performing in front of a sold-out crowd, and her parents are _So proud, sweetheart, we really are, but a partner in your mother’s company has a son who’s just about your age, and wouldn’t you consider letting him take you out to this party?_ and _Michiru, dear, we’re just thinking about your future, do you really think all of these…disturbing paintings are best for your image?_ and _If you keep this up, people are going to get the wrong idea._  
  
She plays the game.  
  
She’s first in her class, and tickets for her three-night engagement with the Tokyo Symphony go faster than for any other event all year, and she sells a painting of all blacks and blues and destruction for the most money yet, and she allows some of her father’s associates’ sons to accompany her to events just because it’s the path of least resistance, and she ends those evenings every time in a bathroom or on a balcony or within a closet with some stunning debutante on her knees before her, and there is absolutely nothing her parents—or anybody, for that matter—can do about it. 

* * *

  
  
Ever since her fingers first curled around a paintbrush, ever since she picked up her first sixteenth-size violin, Michiru’s body has been a commodity.  
  
It’s about time she can reap the benefits for herself.  
  


* * *

  
  
The dreams are changing, shifting, crystalizing, and the whole while she is so, so powerless, even when she tries, even when she lashes out, even when she attacks. The horror becomes more and more clear, but then there are other dreams, other visions.  
  
They’re foggy, but she catches glimpses of blonde hair, and broad shoulders, a husky voice whispering words in her ear that she doesn’t understand, hands tracing the curves of her body with a distinct familiarity, and every time she wakes up shaking and yearning.  
  


* * *

  
  
She knows almost immediately that Elsa Grey isn’t the one, but she’s certainly roguishly attractive enough, and she can hold down a conversation with unexpected wit and intelligence, and her hand drifts halfway up Michiru’s skirt the first time they kiss all on its own, even before Michiru shoves it the rest of the way, and Elsa is, all in all, a quite welcome distraction.  
  


* * *

  
  
Michiru’s heart nearly stops the first time she lays her eyes on Haruka Tenoh, top junior racer in Japan. The sight of Haruka that jumpstarts her heart again, and Michiru knows—she knows—that every beat of her heart, going forward, is going to be for Haruka. 

  
Then the cool metal of her henshin wand slides against her wrist. 

* * *

  
  
By the time she moves in with Haruka, Michiru is certain of three things: if she wanted to, Sailor Uranus could probably destroy anything she needed; Haruka Tenoh, on the other hand, happens to be an entirely endearing, if emotionally ridiculous, companion; and she would do absolutely anything for Haruka.  
  
She finds things out, of course, things that can only be discovered upon living with someone: Haruka eats far too many sweets, and likes to jog in the evenings, and can’t be dragged out of bed before 8 AM to save her life, and, most surprising of all, as Michiru learns one evening, when bemoaning her lack of an accompanist, Haruka happens to be a talented pianist.  
  
Haruka tells her over breakfast the next morning (three cups of sugary black coffee and a bowl of marshmallow cereal for Haruka, and a simple cup of tea for Michiru) that she’s been playing since she was five, had never really been caught by the music, but was always, in terms of technical skill, amongst the best. She tells Michiru, with a hint of pride despite herself, that she has an eleven note reach, can hit twelve in certain cases although she sometimes can’t get the intervals.  
  
Michiru nods along with her in all the right places, her mind long since ensconced in a daydream of just what an eleven note reach could do. Haruka has long, tapered fingers with clear, trimmed nails. Even with all her years as a jock, she really does have artist’s hands, and Michiru wonders how she never realized this.  
  
It’s the first time Michiru spends an evening thinking about Haruka’s hands, but it’s certainly not the last.  
  


* * *

  
  
The evening after Sailor Moon defeats Mistress 9 for good, Michiru falls asleep curled up against Haruka’s side.  
  
It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed, but it’s the first time it feels like it could actually, palpably, lead somewhere, and after Michiru finishes bandaging Haruka’s wounds, Haruka suggests that shouldn’t she keep an eye on Michiru overnight, Michiru did, after all, take a pretty hard blow to the head at one point.  
  
Michiru feels fine, has recovered from much worse, but if this is Haruka’s version of making a move, there’s no way she’s about to question it; at any rate, she can tell that they’re barreling toward something that neither of them can stop, a sense of inevitability looming over both of their heads.  
  
Haruka, though, keeps to her word, seriously and earnestly discussing the night’s events with her until Michiru finds herself nodding off, unable to keep her eyes open, exhausted.  
  
She sleeps through the night for the first time in ten years.  
  


* * *

  
  
Michiru gets Haruka off for the first time only hours after they’ve left Tokyo. They’ve barely kissed, never even come close to talking about things, but all it takes is her knee against Haruka and her whispering in Haruka’s ear before Haruka’s whimpering and falling apart before her and looking so, so good, and Michiru realizes: this it it, this is what she’s here for. To be with Haruka, just like this.  
  


* * *

  
  
Michiru’s flat on her back on the hotel bed, one hand gripping the sheets, one hand tangled in Haruka’s hair, tugging her up as her hips twitch because god, she’s so close, and she’s so content, and she hasn’t had a nightmare in three months, and she’s here, with Haruka Tenoh, of all people eating her out, and she’s never been so happy, and she’s finally, finally allowing herself to believe in destiny.

* * *

  
  
Once she says it, she can’t stop.  
  
Michiru has known that she’s in love with Haruka for what feels like forever now. The way her heart clenches every time Haruka walks into the room is automatic, as familiar as her hand curling around the neck of her violin; the way the ocean raging in her mind calms the moment Haruka’s sleeve brushes against hers; everything she does is some tiny habit that only reinforces it: she’s in love with Haruka. She’s been in love with Haruka in some form or another for thousands of years now.  
  
And the first time the words actually leave her lips, in this lifetime, it opens up a floodgate.  
  
She whispers it to Haruka as she’s petting her hair, as Haruka drifts off in her arms.  
  
She traces the letters down Haruka’s spine as Haruka sleeps, pressing each delicate line against Haruka’s sturdy back, rhythmically rising and falling, and she hopes Haruka can feel it.  
  
She loves Haruka.  
  
She just wants Haruka to say it back.

* * *

  
  
Michiru has never been the kind of girl to worry what other people think about her, but when it’s Haruka, everything seems fragile, everything seems like a glittering sparkling ornament that could be ripped to the ground at any second, and she wants to live life without feeling like she’s constantly holding her breath, but old habits die hard.  
  
Haruka isn’t a talker, either; she flees every time a rogue emotion gets too close, can barely stay in a serious conversation, one that really presses her.  
  
She has dreams of a house by the beach, where they could feed the birds and wake up to the sound of the waves, where every day she could smell the salt water. She has dreams of a life with Haruka, and she knows that Haruka does as well, but still.  
  
Still.  
  
She tastes the words in her mouth: So do _you_ love _me_? Every time she feels foolish, like a desperate little girl begging after her fairy tale prince. She knows Haruka loves her, can see it in every touch and move and gesture.  
  
She knows, she really does.

She tells it to herself over and over, as many times as it takes.  
  


* * *

 

They’re on a drive along the beach, Haruka talking about a race, and maybe she’d enter, for old times sake, under a pseudonym or something, and Michiru can’t help it, can’t hold it back any longer. “Haruka…” she begins.  
  
But the wind—of course it does—catches her words, catches the doubt, and Haruka doesn’t even notice.  
  
With the cool breeze, she shakes her head ever so slightly, tries to get a grip, and she feels silly for even wanting to ask.  
  
It doesn’t matter, after all. She’s told herself this for ages now; she’s been prepared to die for Haruka over and over again, would do it again in an instant, if she needed.  
  
After all, it’s not about her.  
  
Michiru gazes out the window and watches the waves crash on the shore.


End file.
